They emerged from Coldspire's depths long after Dysol's light had fallen below the horizon. Time lurched forward in disjointed intervals; Silas drifted through motion, half-aware of his surroundings, his thoughts trapped in a muddled fog. They didn't stay in the laboratory for long after Stroud read Pa's notes. The Archarbiter had claimed his bounty and, satisfied, called the mission adjourned. Ravelin and Harlowe lugged crates through the twisting caves. Blood oozed between the wooden slats, dripping in a steady rhythm that followed them up the tunnel.

  Conversation was scarce; exhaustion sealed their lips and dissolved their thoughts into silence. Silas stumbled forward on numb feet, staring at a single point ahead as he walked. Stroud kept close, her gaze darting toward him whenever his steps wavered. She clutched Pa's bundle to her chest as if it were something precious. The black ribbon that once bound it now circled Silas's wrist, fluttering like a tether in the cold air.

  At last, they scaled the final spiral and emerged through the small building that capped Coldspire's abyss. Harlowe held the door as they passed. His eyes lingered on Silas as the boy tottered through. Silas didn't notice, stumbling forward until the night's frigid air arrested his lungs. A blustery wind slapped his face, tearing through his hair and burning his cheeks. He shoved his hands into his pockets—his shredded gloves offering little protection against the cold.

  The Arbiters bid farewell to Harlowe before climbing into Sorne's boiler. Sorne and Stroud lingered by the bargemaster, speaking in low, urgent tones. Silas watched this interaction from the passenger seat—staring through the windshield while Oscar struggled to make room for himself in the back with all of his supplies. Stroud gestured from the bundle to her boiler. Harlowe's glare lingered on Silas through the windshield, but he said nothing. He listened to Stroud, who gesticulated while she spoke. Oscar tried speaking to Silas, but his words were not heard. Silas drew his knees to his chest. His chin rested between his knees, breath fogging the windshield.

  Stroud finally broke away and ambled to her vehicle. She opened the door—cursing as it was flung wide by the tempest. When she was seated, she paused to fix her disheveled hair.

  "Well, boys, we've survived another ordeal." She dipped her starter rod in a bottle of igniter fluid before inserting it into its slot, turning until the boiler sputtered to life. "Now, let's get ourselves back to Droswick. Some city lights and crowds will get the humors flowing again."

  She dug her foot into the accelerator, and the boiler lurched forward. Coldspire grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. When it disappeared, Silas released his knees and sank into his seat, staring out the window with unfocused eyes.

  Silas's awareness flickered. His body sat in Stroud's boiler, rolling south toward Droswick, but his mind lingered somewhere in the frozen depths of Coldspire. How was he supposed to feel after learning his existence was artificial? That Pa was not his real grandfather, but a logister affiliated with the enigmatic Covenant of Fallen Stars? He supposed he should be sad, or angry. But he felt nothing at all. The guilt after he had killed the animals, as well as the shock from learning the truth of his existence, had departed. He was an empty shell, a hollow simulacrum of who he once was.

  Soon, Stroud's boiler entered Droswick's municipal boundary—Coldspire looming behind like a dream half-remembered. The city's lights burned Silas's eyes. He shied away, covering his face with his hands.

  Stroud's boiler slowed. Silas peeked through his fingers. The white spire of the Sovereign Infirmary approached as Stroud navigated her vehicle into its boiler park. She backed into a space and relaxed in her seat.

  "Oscar, go get that nose of yours looked at," she said, waving her hand to shoo Oscar from the boiler. "I'll swing by to collect you once your snout is set back in its rightful place."

  The Warden grumbled to himself as he unfastened his harness. He climbed over the supplies piled in the backseat before freeing himself from the vehicle. Silas unfastened his harness. He figured he could stop by and visit Pa while they were here. As he was reaching for the door, Stroud's hand came to rest on his shoulder. He stiffened, turning toward her. She shook her head, her forehead creased between furrowed brows. Something burdened her thoughts—Silas could see it in the shadow that passed over her eyes.

  "No, you and I are going back to Crownhold." She glanced at Oscar's retreating form—the Warden stumbling like a drunkard as he waddled through the Sanctorium's entranceway. "I'll fetch Oscar later—after you're safely back in your cell."

  Silas tilted his head in confusion.

  Stroud pursed her lips. She sighed, her elbow resting on the steering disc. "Don't worry, I'll make sure Alist—" She caught herself, her tone wavering. “That your Pa's convalescence is satisfactory." Her face softened at Silas's worried expression. "Don't fret, mouse boy. The Archarbiter does not intend to disturb your Pa until he has recovered."

  Stroud fixed her eyes on the road ahead and pulled the boiler into motion. Soon, they were back on the road.

  Silas blinked. The next thing he knew, Stroud was flashing her identification at a Warden posted before Crownhold's great portcullises. The Warden nodded at Stroud before scurrying back to his sentry box. The portcullis was raised. Stroud's boiler jerked forward into Crownhold's foggy courtyard.

  Stroud parked and hurried from the vehicle. Silas stumbled after her. Stroud mumbled to herself as she walked—Pa's bundle pressed firmly against her chest. Silas tried reading Stroud's lips to decipher her garbled words, but her mouth was moving so fast he couldn't keep up.

  Stroud guided Silas to an elevator in Crownhold's lobby. Silas stared at the floor as he walked under the Archarbiter's menacing portrait—his arms wrapped around his chest as gooseflesh pricked his skin.

  In the dungeon, Silas found his cell and entered it—by this point, he was familiar enough with Crownhold's murky depths to find his way. Stroud followed him, reading sections of Pa's entries as she languished behind. As the boy passed her, he noticed a small slip of parchment resting on the top of the bundle.

  Stroud's head ticked up at the sound of Silas's cell door opening and closing. She blinked at him through the bars. She looked like she had little recollection of how she got there.

  Stroud cleared her throat and tucked the parchment into her pocket, readjusting the bundle in her arms. "Try to get some sleep, Silas," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a frown. "I'll be back with Oscar as soon as I can."

  She said this last part like an afterthought—a whisper Silas barely perceived. She slipped a key into the lock; the hollow clatter rang like a verdict. She then hurried away, her head bent over Pa's bundle.

  Silas listened until her bootsteps faded, leaving only the rush of his heartbeat in his ears.

  Silas sank to his futon. He glared at the bottle of Powder he took from his house several days previously. He grabbed it in a shaking hand and hurled it at the wall. The bottle shattered in a burst of glass shards and white dust. Silas ran his fingers through his hair—yanking on his tresses as overwhelming emotion surged through his veins. He seized his thin pillow and smothered his face with it. He inhaled the object's dusty aroma, then released a muffled scream into the pillowcase. Exhausted, he reclined on his futon—his legs curled to his chest.

  He tried to sleep.

  His mind would not let him.

  Every time Silas closed his eyes, he was haunted by nightmares that scrambled reality until he couldn't discern horror from memory. He woke, soaked in sweat—silent screams tearing through his clamped throat. It wasn't animals he killed at Coldspire—it was Stroud. He watched her skull explode in a spray of blood and brain. Her lifeless body collapsed to the floor—a fleshy stump where her head should have been. An eyeball rolled from her body, bouncing against Silas's boot before coming to rest in a puddle of gore.

  Silas was in this cell because he was a murderer. He was arrested at Coldspire after killing Stroud and the other Arbiters. He had been captured by a grinning Archarbiter, who told Silas he had a choice: rot for eternity in Crownhold's dank dungeon or stay by his side—Sorne's own pet assassin.

  Every so often, Oscar stopped by to deliver food and water. He thrust a tray under the cell door, delivering it with a profane postscript. He cursed Silas for his injured nose, which was now hidden beneath a thick wad of bandages. Through Silas's bleary eyes, the dressing blended into the Warden's skin. Oscar looked like a noseless monster—an Unspoken-crafted aberration sent to destroy him. Silas kicked the trays across his cell, retching at the nauseating odor of stew and bread.

  At first, he was thirsty. When he tried a few sips of water, he spewed bile into his cell's latrine. Eventually, Silas's parched mouth forgot what thirst felt like. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth—his cracked lips sealed shut.

  Hours blurred into days. Unable to eat or sleep, Silas grew weak. He slouched against the wall, staring at the growing pile of rotting food. The prisoners' muttering bled together—like the whispering of Unspoken in his head. He covered his ears with his hands to dampen the noise, but he could still hear it. He cried, but was too dehydrated for tears to fall.

  Silas clung to one coherent thought—his sanity's lifeline. It swirled around and around, fleeing from him as he struggled to hold on. He cradled it to his chest, refusing to let it go.

  I wish I did not exist.

  A metallic rattle roused Silas. His eyes fluttered open. The blurry form of Oscar shuffled inside, the cell door hanging open behind him. The Warden pinched his nostrils shut—fixing his gaze on the pile of decaying food. He turned to Silas.

  The boy sat with his back propped against the wall, watching Oscar with sunken eyes. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths that whistled through his parted lips. Oscar took a step forward, staring in disbelief. His eyes flicked between the uneaten food and Silas. His frown hardened, deep crevices wrinkling his chin.

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  "Have you not eaten, Silas?" Oscar whispered, his eyes landing on a full cup of water. "Or had anything to drink?"

  Silas closed his eyes in response.

  Oscar inhaled sharply and stormed out of the cell. He returned a moment later, a fresh tray of food held in a white-knuckled grip. He crouched and slammed the tray down. Silas opened his eyes, his nose scrunching at the smell of fried meat.

  "Eat, Silas. Eat." Oscar picked up the tray and placed it on Silas's lap.

  The boy whimpered and turned away. The tray tilted, meat and vegetables spilling onto the floor. Oscar swore, frustration heating his cheeks. He forked a slice of meat and held it to Silas's lips. Silas shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Oscar growled. He grabbed Silas's face, prying his lips apart. Silas cried out and thrashed, struggling weakly as the Warden forced the meat into his mouth. The food hit Silas's tongue, and his eyes snapped open. He lurched forward, spitting the meat onto the floor as his empty stomach heaved. Oscar stood and backed away, the fork slipping through his fingers while Silas gagged and sputtered. Silas quieted, curling himself into a protective ball. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

  Oscar stammered, his mouth gaping open and closed. He collected himself and said, "Arbiter Stroud'll know what to do," and bolted from the cell.

  Silas's shoulders stilled, but he remained curled in on himself. It was quiet for several dilated moments. When Silas thought he was free from Oscar and his meddling, a pair of hurried bootsteps flew down the corridor toward him. His feeble heart skipped a beat. Silas forced himself upright. He pitched forward, accosted with vertigo, and found himself back in his little ball. The bootsteps stopped in front of Silas's cell.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Then, Stroud said, "How long has he been like this, Oscar?" Her tone was harsh, the words forced through clenched teeth.

  "Um… Uh—" Oscar stuttered, his pitch rising. "I-I think since we got back from Coldspire, Arbiter."

  Someone swallowed heavily. Then, Oscar gasped—the sound like a strangled choke. Stroud cleared her throat after a tense beat.

  "You had one job, Oscar. Literally one task. My instructions were very clear. How can you be so incompetent?" Stroud spat the words, her volume reaching threatening heights.

  Oscar gave a little yelp. "I-I… I'm—"

  "Leave, Oscar. Go." Stroud punctuated her order with a stomp.

  "Y-yes, Arbiter Stroud." Slow, shuffling bootsteps marked his departure.

  Stroud crept cautiously into the cell. She knelt in front of Silas, her rheumy eyes raking over his huddled form. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, glancing away as she considered next steps. Silas pushed himself into a seated position, his arms shaking with the effort. When he locked eyes with Stroud, he shied away, his back hitting the wall. Was this Stroud real? Or was she another nightmare that would send him over the edge? He could have sworn he killed her at Coldspire. Who was this imposter?

  Stroud's cheeks tightened as if she'd bitten something sour. She reached for Silas, but he swatted her hand away—cowering against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. Stroud sighed—exhaling through pursed lips. She stood—her hands reaching for Silas's shoulders. He tried to extricate himself, but Stroud's fingers only dug in deeper. With a grunt, she hoisted him to his feet. Silas stood on unsteady legs, swaying like a flag in the wind. His vision darkened, and his ears rang. Stroud caught him before he fell, gently slapping his cheek to rouse him.

  "Mhm. That's what happens when you don't eat or drink for a few days." She readjusted her grip, her arm wrapped around Silas's torso. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. "Are you alright now? Good. Let's get out of here."

  They hobbled into the corridor, Stroud half-carrying Silas, his feet dragging behind him.

  "W-where are you going?" Oscar's tinny voice echoed.

  Stroud paused and peered over her shoulder. "Out, Oscar. We're leaving. I think we could both use some fresh air." She took a step forward—then paused, glancing back to add, "Don't follow us. And clean up that mess."

  Oscar mumbled, "Yes, Arbiter Stroud," and plodded into Silas's reeking cell.

  Stroud led Silas through Crownhold's twisting corridors and out into the frigid night. Silas shivered, his teeth chattering. Stroud pulled him close, her body heat comfortably warm. Her boiler sat where it had days ago. Silas wondered vaguely if she'd paused her investigation since their Coldspire return.

  Stroud opened the passenger door and eased Silas inside, fastening his harness with surprising tenderness. She then rushed to the driver's side and climbed in—bonking her head on the frame. She massaged the growing lump on her forehead while she maneuvered her vehicle through the portcullises and onto the road.

  As she drove, Stroud hummed a frenetic tune, her fingers tapping out the beat on the steering disc. The boiler's drone and Stroud's voice lulled Silas into a somnolent stupor—his brain still rebelling against the notion of sleep. Silas marveled at how elaborate this current nightmare was and predicted how it might end.

  After a jaunt through the suburbs, Stroud pulled into a gravel driveway. Her boiler chugged up the steep slope, gravel grinding beneath wheels. She parked in front of a quaint house of brick veneer and black stone. A short staircase led to a small porch and front door. Silas shook his head, repelling the lethargy. Was this Stroud's home?

  Stroud exited the vehicle and came around to Silas's door. Dazed, Silas sat there, staring dumbly at the humble abode. He didn't know why, but it amazed him—Stroud had a normal house. Like a normal person. Somehow, this made her seem more human.

  Stroud freed Silas from the harness and—with some pushing and prodding—coaxed him from the boiler. She then pushed him up the stairs and onto the front porch, pausing to unlock the door. Silas giggled into his shoulder, humored that she wasn't willing to kick in her own door. Stroud's head swiveled around—her eyes narrowed. She snatched Silas's arm and hauled him into the foyer.

  Stroud ushered Silas down a dark hallway. As he blundered behind her, Silas glanced left and right, noticing trinkets and furniture lurking in dim corners. They passed by a room that looked like a study—its rear wall adorned with a large bookcase sagging under its literary burden. Silas wished there were more light; he wanted to know what books Stroud liked to read.

  Stroud froze in front of a shut door. She turned and started fussing with Silas's coat. "First things first—you need to get cleaned up." She tugged at his buttons. "Really now, Silas," she said with a crooked grin, "you're always drenched in humors. I ought to start carrying a mop just for you."

  Silas's arms were plucked from his coat sleeves. Stroud held the coat between two pinched fingers—her face screwed up in disgust—before plopping the article onto the floor. She turned and opened the door, stepping inside to wind a starbloom lantern. Stroud emerged from the now-illuminated room and considered Silas with hands on hips.

  "I will leave you to it. Put your… soiled apparel outside the door when you are ready. I will stop by to fetch them for laundering." She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. "I suppose I will have to dress you in my clothes until then." A snort escaped her. "They will be a tad oversized, but we must make do with what we have."

  Stroud ushered Silas into the washroom and sat him on a rusting metal stool. Once he was seated, she bowed awkwardly and shut the door, which closed with a husky croak from its hinges. Silas removed his articles and pushed them outside, leaning on the wall for support when he stood. He returned to his seat and cranked the spigot until steaming water gushed from the showerhead. He sat under the scalding surge until the water ran clear. Once clean, he turned the water off but remained on the stool until he was no longer sopping. When he opened the door, he found a set of women's pajamas folded neatly where his polluted garb once lay. He frowned at the pink-and-white stripes and delicate ribbons. He didn't balk at donning such girlish garments, but he doubted whether Stroud actually wore them. Were these truly her pajamas? Perhaps he was in a nightmare after all, and had been abducted by Stroud's demure doppelganger.

  He pulled the shirt over his head and stepped into the flowy trousers. A good half foot of fabric pooled past his wrists and ankles. When he stepped into the hallway, he had to shuffle to avoid tripping over the dragging material. Silas lifted a sleeve to his nose—inhaling the soft fabric's balmy aroma.

  Stroud waited on the other side of the door. She took one look at him—and burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. Silas chuckled shyly, tugging at the too-long hem. Stroud doubled over—wheezing and gasping between chortles. Silas wobbled and pitched back, his balance faltering. Stroud's head snapped up. She snatched Silas's wrist and pressed a steadying hand into his back.

  "Alright, that's enough of that," she said, her voice airy. She wiped away a tear and peered down, flashing Silas a half-smile. "It's time to get some food into your belly."

  Silas's face fell. As they neared the kitchen, the sickening smell of roasting vegetables and freshly baked bread caused Silas's mouth to fill with saliva. He gagged and dug in his heels, refusing to take another step. Stroud's hand moved from Silas's back to his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. She tugged forward, encouraging Silas to continue onward.

  Silas was forced into a chair. He recoiled from the soup and bread arranged on the table before him. Stroud turned and procured something from the kitchen island. She spun back around and plonked a glass of water next to his bowl.

  Stroud slid into a chair on the opposite side of the table. She rested her chin in her hands. "Start with the water first. Just a sip." She smiled sadly when Silas shook his head and slid the glass away. "Just one sip, Silas. Please give it a try."

  After an internal struggle, Silas took the glass in his trembling hand and lifted it to his lips. It sloshed and spilled water down his front. He sputtered, plopping the glass onto the table.

  Stroud stood and rummaged in a cabinet. She returned to her seat and slid a hollow metal tube toward him. "Perhaps a straw will expedite the process?" She popped a finger into her mouth, gnawing on the nailbed.

  Silas reluctantly picked up the straw and dropped it into his glass. He leaned forward until his lips kissed the cold metal. He drew water into his mouth and froze, afraid to swallow—afraid it might come right back up. Stroud urged him on with an encouraging nod. Silas took a deep breath to steady himself and gulped.

  The water crawled slowly down his gullet, impeded by sluggish peristalsis. When it reached his stomach, Silas felt it linger. He braced himself for another bout of nausea, but the queasiness dissipated, leaving behind a voracious thirst. Silas seized the glass and chugged its contents in two great swigs, the straw forgotten.

  Stroud's eyes sparkled, her lips spread in a wide grin. "Would you like some more?" she chuckled.

  Silas nodded yes.

  Stroud went back and forth from the table to the sink, refilling the glass until Silas's thirst was quenched. She returned to her seat and leaned back—the chair balanced on its back legs. Her brows lifted, eyes flicking between Silas's face and his bowl of soup. The boy fiddled with his spoon. He played with his food—stirring root vegetables and meat into a whirlpool that swirled in the bowl's center. Stroud cleared her throat. Silas hung his head.

  The food was more challenging than the water, but he managed it the same. The first few bites were the hardest, but his appetite kicked in and motivated him to finish. He wiped the bottom of the bowl with his last bite of bread and popped it into his mouth, washing it down with some water. His vision blurred—eyelids growing impossibly heavy. Silas slumped forward, resting his cheek on the table.

  "Off to bed with you now," Stroud sang. She slid Silas's chair back and helped him to his feet.

  Silas tried to keep his eyes open. He fought against the drowsiness, his thoughts addled. Did… Did she put a sleeping draught in the soup? He wondered dimly as Stroud half-carried him up a flight of stairs.

  Stroud nudged open a door and hauled Silas toward a bed. It was big and warm and soft, and Silas sank into it with a sigh. Stroud covered him with a comforter, tucking it under his chin.

  "Sweet dreams, little mouse."

  Silas closed his eyes and drifted into a deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.